


Both the Absurd and the Unexpected

by zarabithia



Category: Fake News RPF, Late Night Host RPF, Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (TV)
Genre: Consentacles, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Tentacles, Tripped And Fell On A Bunch Of Tentacles, hand-jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: An alien lands in New Jersey, bites Jon Stewart, and gives him tentacles. Stephen and Jon benefit immensely from these turn of events.





	Both the Absurd and the Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



It's been a while since Jon has been on the show. 

Stephen understands; Jon has a very different life now. It's not as it once was, when their shows consumed Jon's _daily_ existence. He understands, and he doesn't at all have to fight the urge to press the little heart next to the comments on Twitter that question where Jon has been.

Stephen understands that even though Jon is technically an executive producer, the rule has always been that the farm in New Jersey has to come first.

Stephen understands, but he answers the phone a little more quickly than an understanding man should when his phone rings with Jon's ringtone. 

He is also more disappointed than he should be when it's Tracey on the other end. 

"Stephen," she says. "There's been an accident. Not a bad one! Not exactly. It's just ... do you think you could come to the farm? When you have time, of course." 

In the course of when Tracey starts her greeting and when it ends, Stephen's heart does approximately as many changes as Donald Trump's association with reality when confronted about the existence of Wikileaks. 

But in the end, the answer is simple. "Of course," he says, because it's Jon, so what else might the answer be?

* * *

He expects a lot of things when he arrives at the farm, and he likes to think his line of work makes him prepared for both the absurd and the unexpected. But neither his extraordinarily high expectation of bullshit nor Tracey's mostly cheerful face prepare him for what she is about to say. 

"A couple of weeks ago," Tracey begins, wringing her hands in the same way that Evie does when she is stressed, "we had a ... visitor." 

"A visitor?" Stephen asks. "That sounds ominous." 

"It might have been from space," Tracey blurts out, which does not sound ominous but is also interfering with the confidence Stephen previously had in his expectation of bullshit. 

"At this point, I would like to remind you _and_ Jon that you missed April's Fools Day by over three weeks," Stephen tells her. "Which is too bad, really, because I had a fantastic ... oh, no, please don't cry." 

"It's not a joke, Stephen! We ... the creature was hurt, so we adopted it because that's what we do... that's what Jon agreed to do with me... but it bit him." 

There's guilt there, and too much of it. Stephen could pretend he doesn't know what that's like, but the entire world knows he's Catholic, so who would believe him? 

"The alien you adopted bit Jon?" Stephen repeats. As far as April Fool's jokes go, this one would be amazing. 

Except for one little thing: Tracey's a worse actor than Jon. And by that, Stephen means that very same Jon whose resume includes _The Faculty_ and _Death to Smoochy._

"Yes," Tracey says. "And he's undergone a bit ... of a transformation. He's okay! I mean, he's alive. I just think he needs reassurance, and from someone besides me or the kids." 

"Reassurance that the alien that bit him didn't turn him into something hideous?" Stephen asks, because if the current headlines have given him anything beneficial, it's the knowledge that if you say something over and over again, the supreme ridiculousness and side dish of awful becomes almost normalized to the point where your brain doesn't entirely want to explode. 

Tracey just nods, and again, it is Jon, so what else can Stephen say?

"Then he is in luck, because if four decades of watching Star Wars have taught me anything, it's that I can find all sorts of weird alien bodies sexy," Stephen says, and although he means it as a joke, Tracey apparently does not take it as one.

"Oh, good," she says, and that is the phrase that Stephen repeats in his head as she leads him to the _barn_ that Jon is staying in.

* * *

Stephen is sent into the barn alone, and he's still wondering about the possibility of Jon's new alien friend having turned him into some sort of space vampire or space werewolf - both of which would require a sacrifice - when he sees the first ... tentacle.

Oh, yes, that's definitely actually a tentacle sliding across the probably organic straw. Stephen isn't sure if you can actually buy organic straw, but it seems at least as realistic as hungry space aliens biting his best friend, so why not? 

The tentacle continues to crawl... slither?... make its way across the ground until it reaches Stephen's foot. 

"Jon," he says steadily. "I really hope that's you, and not your hungry little friend." 

The comforting familiarity of Jon's giggle puts Stephen at ease, even though the tentacle does not move from Stephen's foot. 

"She said she was going to call you. You didn't need to come," Jon says, and the giggle is gone in an instant. It's the same kind of voice that Jon had tried to use on the last episode of _The Daily Show_ , when Stephen had showed his gratitude. 

Well, that hadn't stopped Stephen then, and it certainly isn't going to now. 

Stephen kneels down and strokes the tentacles atop of his foot lightly. He doesn't know what to expect, exactly. But what he receives is a gasp that is an even more familiar sound than Jon's giggle. 

That's encouraging, so Stephen's experimental feather touch turns into a purposeful grasp. Stephen expects it - _Jon's tentacle_ , he forces himself to think - to feel like the slimy, sticky tentacles that Stephen imagines belong on a tentacle or a squid. But there's no slime, and the sensation wriggling in his hand makes Stephen think of a thousand flower blossoms competing for the most center spot in his hand, and tripping on each other in their attempts. 

"I didn't have to. But I wanted to," Stephen agrees as he runs a thumb experimentally down what he assumes is the underside of the tentacle. He watches as the tentacle responds by arching up towards the roof of the barn. 

And he listens, as he is rewarded with a low guttural moan from the other end of Jon's tentacle. 

Without letting go of Jon's tentacle, Stephen comments, "Generally, I like to see your face when I'm giving you a hand-job." 

The tentacle relaxes from its "ass in the air" position and slides down around Stephen's wrist. It gives a gentle tug that is impossible to read as anything other than a "come on, then." 

And so, Stephen does.

* * *

The tentacles are white and black, and they match the salt-and-pepper look that has been slowly taking over Jon's body hair for the past ten years. Stephen observes them rising and falling out of Jon's back, and suddenly the fact that they are in a _barn_ instead of the house makes perfect sense. There's more harmless things for the tentacles to touch out here, and _touch_ they certainly want to do. Whether it's the straw on the ground or the buttons of Stephen's suit ("Perhaps I should have changed," he thinks, as one of the buttons is lost forever in the abyss of probably organic straw) the tentacles seem to love nothing more than to roll objects between them. 

"I thought I was going to be giving you a hand job," Stephen comments. "But I'm not sure your tentacles are up for that." 

"They're up for anything," Jon says wearily. 

"You sounds surprised. Come now, Jon. If I had access to dirty tentacle anime in South Carolina growing up, I know you could have found some in New Jersey." 

He lets his voice dip low, in the accent that isn't used to pacify both coasts and the Midwest. Stephen doesn't have to look at Jon to know the effect it's having; Jon's natural Jersey accent does the same to him.

"You were a terrible Catholic," Jon says, which isn't a denial of any teenage tentacle hentai at all. 

"I was a teenage boy who formed his early sexual fantasies around Star Wars," Stephen defends himself. "It's only natural that I should want to do filthy things with your tentacles, Jon." 

"Twi'leks?" Jon asks and his amusement is enough to apparently allow a second tentacle to start making its way to Stephen's foot - except that it misses Stephen's foot and goes directly for Stephen's zipper instead. "You weren't a teenager anymore by the time the Twi'leks made their debut, Stephen." 

"Nautolans, Jon. I'm disappointed that you went for the cheap and easy Twi'lek fantasy, honestly." 

"You _definitely_ weren't a teenager by the time the Nautolans came along. That's prequel shit right there."

"No, but my teenage knowledge that I definitely wanted to have questionable sex with every alien that resided in George Lucas' mind definitely had the benefit of an adult sexual appetite by the time that Kit Fisto and Ewan McGregor's handsome face showed up and made me realize the one truth of the universe." 

"And what might that be?" 

"If one tentacle is good, _all_ the tentacles are better." 

It's very overwhelming to go from having two of his best friend's tentacles fondling him to having all _eight_ of them trying to simultaneous fuck and strip him, but Stephen is assuredly not complaining.

* * *

Jon's tentacles fuck the way he does: rough, but considerately. 

Which is to say that one tentacle refuses to let mere cloth stand in its way while it rips and tears apart the clothing that stands in its way, while another two tentacles give Stephen a make-shift chair to lean back into. It's also why the two tentacles that have taken to stroking his face seem so gentle, while the one sliding across his chest ... are very much the opposite of that. 

"They have suckers," Jon murmurs, and Stephen cannot tell if it is a whisper or if he has lost his ability to focus on exactly what Jon is saying, because the minute that the _suckers_ come in contact with his skin, it's game officially over. 

A sucker on a _tentacle_ should be rough or even crude, the way the off-brand "nipple clamps" that Paul once bought out of the back of a van in Chicago were. But unlike those clamps, the tentacles' suckers are the best approximation of a mouth Stephen has ever felt. They slide over his chest, taking time to explore each inch with another row of wide, open-mouthed kisses. Along their route, they are gentle about the chest hair, and Stephen wonders if Jon's chest had been their first introduction to the concept of body hair, because the tentacles seem very fond of it. 

And then, of course, they reach his nipples. Those terrible fake nipple clamps of Paul's were nothing like this. There are no teeth, but the suckers clamp down on Stephen and _suck_. It's the right level of pain, and the sloppy wet noise just the right level of obscene to make Stephen let loose a stream of curses. He couldn't, if asked, tell you exactly which ones escape him. 

Beside him, Jon laughs. "Was that a _fuck_ so early in the game, Stephen? I haven't even shown you the best thing they can do, yet." 

"Nothing will beat this," Stephen argues, or at least, he hopes he does, because that is certainly his intention. But half-way through his retort, the suckers clamp down on his nipples again, and he loses the ability to care about verbal coherence. 

"Oh, Stephen," Jon says, and it's in the perfect spot between a sigh and a command, so Stephen is not at all surprised when the two stroking his cheek slide dramatically upwards and wrap around his wrists. 

It is everything that his teenage "confused and aroused by everyone in that cantina" self ever dreamed of, but this part at least is familiar to Jon. And with equal familiarity, Stephen leans back, trusting the tentacles holding him up and the ones holding him still. 

He doesn't know at all what to expect, but he trusts Jon more than he'd ever expected to trust another man in his life, so he jerks only slightly when the tentacle that had so angrily removed his pants slides underneath him, nudges an opening between the two tentacles holding him up, and nestles along his ass crack. 

"You usually take longer to work up to anal," Stephen muses. 

"It doesn't feel great to have them actually fuck you," Jon corrects. "So that's one Star Wars fantasy you'll have to do without. But they'll make up for it, I promise." 

Stephen has a retort - he isn't the _retired_ one, so he has to stay sharp - but it's lost the minute that the tentacle snuggled against the crack of his ass _blossoms_ and a long, wet _tongue_ delves ravenously into Stephen. 

No, it's not a tongue. Tentacles don't have _tongues_. It's ... 

"A second tentacle," Jon says, and he sounds so smug about it - smug and a little breathless. Stephen is a lot breathless, and that doesn't change when he looks over and sees Jon, pants down around his ankles as he leans back on a pile of straw and allows a tentacle to stroke him. 

Stephen doesn't know whether to be aroused or jealous, so he settles for a confusing combination of the two. At least, he does until the tentacle that had been so rough a few minutes before decides to display extra care and consideration in exploring every inch of Stephen's anal cavity. This part of the tentacle is wetter than the outer surface, but only enough to make the constant squirming inside of him comfortable instead of painful. 

Jon - always considerate Jon - waits until the tentacle dives deep enough to find the prostate, until Stephen's vision blurs with that special kind of pleasure, before he allows the last tentacle to slide around Stephen's cock. 

The tiny suckers that had felt so good on Stephen's nipples are almost too much to stand when they touch his already hard cock. Stephen closes his eyes, content to let himself be stroked and fucked to a point that is almost painful. 

It's overwhelming, until he hears Jon's voice. Jon's panting gives him something to focus on, and opening his eyes is still too much, but he can focus on the way that Jon is getting _closer_ and he can focus on that. 

He listens to Jon's panting and knows that Jon's strokes are matching the ones that his tentacles are doing to Stephen. It's a gentle challenge, and normally, Stephen would be up to it.

But the tentacles are new to Stephen, and they are not new to Jon. So Stephen comes with Jon's panting still loud in his ear, with one tentacle still sucking the entire length of his dick, and another tentacle eating Stephen's ass with the kind of enthusiasm that actually manages to surpass Jon's own mouth.

* * *

Stephen doesn't pass along any information about the oral superiority of the tentacles. It doesn't seem very gentlemanly. 

Instead, after he is released from Jon's many-tentacled grip, he finds himself in the familiar position beside Jon, naked and comfortably tired. 

"Do you have to get back to the studio?" Jon asks. 

"Tomorrow," Stephen tells him. "You owe me a suit, by the way." 

"I didn't make up for it?" Jon asks with faux-outrage. "I thought the whole second tentacle eating your ass trick would have made up for the suit." 

"They have better suits at CBS than at Comedy Central, Jon," Stephen says. 

"Fair point," Jon says. 

And now that the point has been made, Stephen decides that a nap is in order, so he takes one. Before he completely drifts off, he becomes aware of the eight new parts of Jon wrapping around him, and he thinks that his dreams are going to be spectacular.


End file.
